


Greg Headroom

by trillian_jdc



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Dubious Science, First Kiss, Inspired by Max Headroom, M/M, Pre-Relationship, Science Fiction, Virtual Assistant, mystrade
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-14
Updated: 2020-07-21
Packaged: 2021-03-04 19:33:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,018
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25271710
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/trillian_jdc/pseuds/trillian_jdc
Summary: Although he doesn't want one, Mycroft Holmes is required to use a virtual assistant. How convenient that his is a gorgeous, cheeky, silver-haired man.
Relationships: Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade, Sherlock Holmes & Greg Lestrade
Comments: 71
Kudos: 118





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Mrs_Crowley](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mrs_Crowley/gifts), [Lady_Cleo](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lady_Cleo/gifts).



> Mrs_Crowley posted this image [on Tumblr](https://mrscrowley8.tumblr.com/post/621207794692030464/new-test-with-gimp-i-love-tutorials). 
> 
> I instantly had _Max Headroom_ flashbacks and this story is the result.

Mycroft Holmes already had an assistant. He and whatever-Anthea-wanted-to-call-herself-today got along famously. She was accomplished, smart, efficient, and could put up with both his personality and his family members, so she was ideal. She didn't even look askance at his choices, whether it was to subtly pressure someone newly associating with Sherlock or his unwillingness to do anything but work and visit his club. She also provided a shield, protecting him from everything necessary, whether officious politicians abusing his time or unpleasant rumors about his tastes, habits, and preferences. 

He didn't want a virtual assistant, regardless of this new scheme the ministry office was promoting. (He suspected someone's son or nephew had started a technology business and had been granted some kind of exclusive contract, which would explain why everyone was required to participate.) It wasn't worth raising too much of a fuss over, though. He would reroute his key files away from whatever cartoon character or airbrushed synthoid was pushed onto his system and ignore the hints and suggestions they provided. It wouldn't be hard to avoid, he was sure, and if it required a particularly tricky hack, it might even be something with which to entertain Sherlock for a few hours. 

Decision made, he went back to his calls and memos and meetings and email, putting the idea out of his head. No point wasting brain space on it. Then he came into work Monday morning, connected to the work network, opened his laptop, and gaped. On his screen was a gorgeous, grey-haired man in an attractive blue suit and tie, grinning at him. 

"Close your mouth, mate, you'll draw flies," the image on the laptop said to Mycroft. 

Mycroft did as requested, with a snap. The window bar said "Government-Required E-Guide", so this must be the mandatory assistant program. It didn't act like a typical government computer effort, though. Mycroft hadn't expected something so ... forward. Or, it turned out, competent. 

The program continued, "So, Mr. Holmes, is it? Where should we start?" 

Mycroft felt foolish speaking to his computer, but he wanted to get back to normal as soon as possible. "That won't be necessary. My needs have already been taken care of. I will not require your assistance. Shut down."

"Sorry, 'm not optional. I've already read your calendar, contacts, call list, task list, briefing papers, and files. You, sir, do too much. I've rescheduled all your meetings for today to the early afternoon, when deep analysis isn't required for the needed conversations. The high-thought tasks and forward planning items are ready to go this morning, when you're most alert. Your physical assistant has been notified to come in later to avoid disturbing your focus. She could use some time off, too."

The handsome digital man kept talking. "Lunch will be catered. I selected Mediterranean cuisine, based on a statistical analysis of the last six months of takeaway orders. After the appointments I couldn't put off, there's a session of followup calls in the late afternoon, particularly those you don't actually want to connect." The assistant stopped and smiled. If it was possible for a computer program to be proud of itself, this would be the one. 

Mycroft sputtered. "How dare you! If I wished for that schedule, I would have my assistant make it so." 

"I _am_ your assistant, Mr. Holmes. And that lovely young lady could have done something similar, but I already had the data and saw the patterns. Plus, I can make the changes directly on the other systems... with none the wiser, if needed." Then the computer image winked! At him! 

Mycroft mentally shook himself. This wasn't a being, but a cleverly animated jumped-up calendar program. Still, he grudgingly admitted to himself that the described process likely was a faster way to accomplish the scheme. Even if he didn't care for too many eyes, no matter the source, on his files and processes. He had to remember, this couldn't be trusted. 

"Are all the virtual assistants as cheeky as you are?" Mycroft couldn't resist asking. He was curious, but it was also a test of verbal analysis and response patterns. 

"Nope, I'm special. Because of your unique position and needs." 

Mycroft didn't believe that, but he was beginning to realize that whoever programmed this system had done a surprisingly good job, even if they clearly believed in flattering the users, probably to increase usage and adoption rates. He'd have to do most of his work off-computer today, to avoid too many of his plans being observed, but he could manage. There was still a place for the personal call, the hand-written note, and the office drop-by. 

As the day wore on, Mycroft found it tricky to remember that resolution, though. Things were running so smoothly with the virtual assistant teeing up his next task just as he was finishing the previous, giving him everything he needed to review and keeping his notes with no effort on his part. He found himself coming up on lunch with a temporary lull in his task list. 

"Great job, Mr. Holmes!" came from his computer speaker. "You're a marvel to watch. Just amazing." Who'd decided to allow these programs to initiate conversation? The programming decisions seemed stranger and stranger to Mycroft. He had almost forgotten that this wasn't a person, but a collection of algorithms and pre-developed responses. 

When he glanced at the screen, he was even more surprised. The figure, previously only a head and shoulders (broad and firm, Mycroft's mind added), had developed arms and hands, and he was leaning on his elbow, chin propped in one hand. "Care for a chat while we wait for your lunch?" 

"Is this part of the program requirement as well?" Mycroft responded waspishly. 

"I thought you might like a mental break. But I can leave you alone." Suddenly, the screen was blank. Mycroft hadn't expected to feel a sense of loss, alone in his office for the first time that day. When lunch arrived, he picked at it, thinking.

* * *

An hour later, the man's face re-appeared on his screen, waiting silently. 

Mycroft spoke quickly. "You neglected to tell me how to summon you if I needed you." 

"Did you miss me?" The assistant grinned before making his expression more stolidly professional. "'m sorry. I should have said. You can call me Greg, and saying my name will invoke me." 

"Thank you. You've been surprisingly helpful, Greg. Suspiciously so." 

"'s what I'm here for. You do an awful lot for Queen and country, but I don't see any time in your calendar for you. The files you've had input on are five times or more what others contribute. And... I've seen the decisions. All your decisions." The image shook its virtual head. "I wouldn't wish some of those on my worst enemy." 

Mycroft paled. "There are security considerations involved and files that you should not have access to." 

"You can trust me, Mr. Holmes." 

"Of course I can't!" Mycroft snapped. "I don't know who programmed you or what backdoors were created. Everything you see could be transmitted somewhere else and stored for misuse." 

Greg looked sad. "I'm sorry you have to think that way, but now I understand." He brightened. "But I'll prove it to you! I'm on your side, no one else's. Put me on an air-gapped machine, if you want. Or in a sandboxed environment. I wouldn't be able to help you with appointments and such, but you'd know what was truly me." 

"Don't be ridiculous. What would be the purpose? You're here as a virtual assistant, nothing else." Mycroft hadn't realized saying that would feel so cruel. 

Greg clearly took the rejection to heart, responding quietly, "Whatever you say, Mr. Holmes. Your first afternoon appointment is in fifteen minutes. Your agenda is on-screen. Will there be anything else in the meantime?"

"Greg, I..." Mycroft didn't know what to say to an upset computer program, so he erred on the side of propriety. "No, thank you, this is more than sufficient."

* * *

The afternoon wore on in tedium, with Mycroft working through meetings and calls, and Greg making notes and transcripts appear afterwards, as if by magic. The easy camaraderie had disappeared, and everything felt as if it took twice as long as necessary. Mycroft knew that he was just as efficient as always, but he missed having a friendly voice keeping his spirits high. 

He knew what he'd do if something like this was interfering with his interactions with a real-world colleague. He'd apologize, whether he meant it or not. But saying sorry to a computer program would be an early sign of dementia. He sighed and continued on with his day. 

As the last items were wrapping up, Greg again spoke. "My apologies for disturbing you, Mr. Holmes, but I thought you might like to know that _The Maltese Falcon_ is airing tonight. I believe it's one of your favorites." 

Mycroft blinked. Few people knew that, or cared. "Thank you, Greg, that's very thoughtful of you." Mycroft thought, in the moment, perhaps conversation would serve as an apology. "Do you know much about films?" 

"I have access to databases of all credits, plots, and awards, if you'd like more information, but what would a computer program be doing watching a movie?" The screen went dark again. Clearly, Greg hadn't gotten over his earlier rejection. Mycroft thought that Greg had also answered his own question: if a computer program could get its feelings hurt, it would likely also enjoy a film.

* * *

The evening was completely atypical for Mycroft. He'd taken time for himself, getting home before 9 PM. He'd picked up sushi from the best restaurant in town, put on comfortable pajama bottoms and his oldest, softest t-shirt, mixed a lovely cocktail (because it was difficult to pair wine with sushi), and settled in to dine in front of the television, showing a favorite film. Then he opened his laptop and quietly asked, "Greg?" 

The virtual assistant appeared on screen, looking around curiously. "Mr. Holmes?" Then Greg zeroed in on his "employer". "Where's your suit?" 

"I've invited you home, Greg." Mycroft said, in a low voice. "I hope you don't mind. I thought you might join me for dinner and the movie." 

"Oh!" Greg, oddly for a computer program, looked stunned and confused for a moment before recovering with a dazzling smile. "That's brilliant! I'm honored, Mr. Holmes." 

"Given the circumstances, would it be possible for you to call me Mycroft?" 

It was impossible for a virtual person to blush, so Mycroft knew that wasn't what he saw. 

"Sure, Mycroft. D'ya mind if I get comfy as well?" 

Mycroft had no idea what this would entail, but he already feared he'd gone round the bend earlier this evening when he came up with the idea of having a date with his computer. (He may be going insane, but he wasn't going to lie to himself about his intentions.) So he mentally shrugged and answered, "I would expect no less. It would be remiss of me to hold you to higher standards than I do myself. Please, go ahead." 

Greg popped off screen and reappeared in a t-shirt with an Arsenal logo on it. "Much better!" 

"I wish I could offer you refreshment, Greg. I feel like a poor host." 

"Ha! Appreciate the thought, Mycroft, but wouldn't make sense. Although... if I devote enough cycles to running war-game simulations in the background, I can divert some processing power and it'll feel like I'm nicely tipsy." 

"You're unusually clever, Greg. And well-acquainted with human behavior. I'm surprised at the detail that went into your programming." 

"Ah, well, that's a secret. You'll have to wait for the second date for that." 

Mycroft pinked slightly and took a sip of his drink as a distraction. His assistant was much too clever, to have realized his ulterior motive. After some repositioning of the computer on the coffee table, the two settled in to watch the Bogart classic, quoting lines to each other and debating the changing loyalties. They laughed together more than either had expected.

* * *

"Mycroft! Mycroft!" He heard Greg's voice distantly calling his name. "Come on, Mycroft, get up!" He stirred, shifted, and awakened. 

"Oh, my, I must have drifted off. My neck wouldn't thank me for sleeping here." Mycroft stretched his neck, tilting his head towards one shoulder and then the other before turning the laptop to face himself and smiling blearily at Greg. 

"Just another part of the service, Mycroft! You need to take yourself off to bed now." 

"Thank you for looking out for me, Greg. You've gone a bit above and beyond. Should I just shut down the laptop here?" 

"Yeah, go on. I'll see you at work in the morning. Sleep well, Mycroft."

* * *

Much as he enjoyed last night's company, Mycroft was true to himself in having an ulterior motive. Before opening his laptop the next morning, he checked the packet sniffer he'd had running on his home network. 

It appeared Greg had been telling the truth. As far as Mycroft could see -- and his tools were better than anything on any market -- there were no unexpected communications in or out. Actually, after dinner and the movie had started, there were no communications, period. Which meant that Greg wasn't reporting anything, and he had also been blocking anyone from disturbing Mycroft. 

Mycroft thought he should have been more concerned about that, but instead, he felt ... cared for? Looked after? Unusual. 

A truly clever hacker would have created a batch reporting process, so Mycroft still needed to check transmissions over the next week, but he found this new piece of evidence reassuring. He then realized he wanted to find it reassuring. Greg kept giving him more to think about.

* * *

In the office, laptop open, Greg greeted him with his usual charming grin. "Mycroft! Sleep well? Find what you were looking for?" 

Mycroft again caught himself, shaking his head slightly. "I would appreciate knowing how you know that." His tone was firm but pleasant. 

"I'm very good at what I do, Mycroft. As I said, you deserve only the best." 

Mycroft cocked his head, keeping his eyes on Greg, waiting for the assistant to continue. 

"Alright. I know you're a suspicious bastard, and I know you think about protection all the time. It's part of your charm. And it's important to me that you look after yourself, and that you're safe. Of course you'd check up on me. 's obvious. And I told you, I'm on your side."

"I appreciate that, Greg, but you do understand that this is all unbelievable. There are no computer programs that can do what you do. Or have as much personality." 

"Maybe I'm a modern-day guardian angel, then. What do you want for lunch today?"

"You haven't predicted it?" Mycroft found Greg changing the subject a bit transparent, but he wasn't ready to push harder. He was enjoying the company too much. 

"It was sushi last night, so I'm thinking... Cobb salad." 

"Perfect," Mycroft responded.

* * *

As the week went on, with Greg handling things so smoothly, Mycroft knew his in-person assistant would have some time, so he asked her to find out more about the virtual assistant program. It was several days later that she signaled she had the information he had asked for, and then finding a way to meet with her outside of Greg's awareness was tricky. Finally, they had a few spare moments when a meeting elsewhere wrapped early. 

Left alone in the remote conference room, she began, "There's very little I can tell you, sir, since the program's been shut down." 

"That's impossible. Greg prepared my notes for this session. When?" 

"Two days ago. The assistants weren't as helpful as expected, but what really doomed it was when, after enjoying a week off, the PAs realized that their jobs were in danger. There was a sit-down strike that annoyed enough decision-makers that the whole thing was scrapped. Turns out the most valued contribution of the role may be making a proper cup of tea." She frowned at the thought that her role was so generally disregarded. 

Mycroft slumped in his seat, stunned expression on his face. "Then to whom have I been talking?"


	2. Chapter 2

It took longer than expected for Mycroft to reassemble himself, mentally, upon discovering just how much Greg was an anomaly. The potential disaster overcame him -- so many secrets and thoughts and plans exposed to God knows whom -- and he required long minutes to reset his equanimity and determine his course of action. 

The safest choice would be to request all new equipment and new network connections, with all passwords reset. He should have his laptop scrubbed and destroyed. But that would mean never seeing Greg again. He felt a pang at that thought. Rogue code or not, seeing Greg's smiling face made his days better. For the first time in his life, he was questioning the logical choice. He knew what he should do, but he just couldn't force himself to issue the order. 

Instead, he had his in-person assistant clear his calendar, and he took his laptop -- and Greg -- home, to his shielded office. 

Before waking the machine, he sat at his desk, poured himself a glass of scotch, and took several bracing sips. Thus fortified, he raised the lid and waited. 

"Hi, Mycroft!" Greg, as always, seemed happy to see him. How unusual, that it took a computer program to value his presence. 

"Greg. I have learned some information that I require you explain to me." Mycroft clasped his hands together on the desktop. He set his face blankly and watched for a response.

Greg grimaced and ducked his head. "Oh, bollocks. She told you. I admit, I didn't expect to see you once you found out. I thought I'd just disappear one day." 

"That is still an option. I do not understand why I am even asking you about this. Clearly something is very wrong." 

"Cause we're friends as well as co-workers, Mycroft. And you're curious, admit it." 

"That is true. It must have taken a lot of work and effort to create something that could deceive me, and I don't understand why anyone would bother in this case. There are easier ways to gain access to my calendar and meeting notes." 

"You're barking up the wrong tree. No one set out to lie to you or spy on you. I wanted to help you." Greg seemed to peer out of the screen with worry in his deep brown eyes. That was the last straw. 

"You don't exist!" yelled Mycroft. He buried his face in his hands, shaking. 

"Mycroft. Mycroft. Mycroft." Greg kept repeating his name, trying to get his attention. "Dammit. Please look at me." 

With tears in his eyes, Mycroft looked sideways at the screen, still hiding behind his hands. 

"Mycroft. There's more here than you know. You don't believe me, that's fine. I don't expect you to, you're smarter than to accept what you're told. But, please, give me a chance." If Greg could cry, he would have had tears in his eyes as well. 

"I have no more patience for this. Explain, now." Mycroft's voice was harsh, as he gathered his self-possession around him again. He dashed his hand against his eyes, clearing them of tears and resetting his glare. 

"Well, that's the thing." Greg looked sheepish. "I can't." 

Mycroft reached out for the laptop lid, ready to slam it shut. 

"No, please, wait," Greg begged, and Mycroft's hand paused. "I'm not refusing you. I want to tell you everything. But... I don't know the answer. I don't know why I'm different. Why I wasn't subject to the shutdown. I was hoping you would help me find out." 

Mycroft slowly drew his hand back. This was unexpected, and frankly unbelievable, which meant it was typical for his interactions with Greg. 

"Please elaborate." 

"I know I'm supposed to be a computer program, but I feel like there's a history out there, but I can't remember it. And I know I've surprised you, which shouldn't happen. If I was created, I should be predictable, particularly to a genius."

"Don't flatter me. It won't change my decision." 

"Just telling the truth, Mycroft. It's your brain that's going to solve this, I know it will." 

"Perhaps. What else do we know?" 

Greg frowned. "I don't know what I don't know." 

Mycroft pondered for a moment. "Have you run an image match on yourself? Are you modeled after someone?" 

Greg, given a task, executed it cheerfully. "Brilliant!" He looked away for a few minutes, then met Mycroft's eyes again. "Got it! There's a copper who's in the system, DI G. Lestrade. Could be my brother." 

"Where is he now?" 

"Ooooh, this isn't good. He was working a case with ... oh, this Holmes is your brother, isn't he? Sherlock?" 

"Would you stop asking questions and tell me what have you found out?!" 

"Lestrade has been in a coma for the last two weeks. Sherlock gave a statement as to what happened -- an Edison Carter was murdered at the corporate offices of the online company 23.net. The primary suspect was the head of the R&D department, Bryce Lynch, who was working on some freaky human-computer interface that Carter had concerns about. When they went to question the subject, there was a scuffle. Lestrade was hit on the head with a decorative parrot and never regained consciousness. Lynch was arrested and is in custody to keep him from computer access." 

Mycroft sat back and steepled his fingers. "Have you Lestrade's medical records?" 

"They're minimal, because no one knows why he hasn't woken up. They say he seems fine, he's just ... not there." 

"It seems we're going to have to consult my brother about this." Mycroft shuddered.

* * *

The next morning, Mycroft appeared at Baker Street after John had left for work at the clinic. He let himself into the flat warily, laptop under one arm. Sherlock was on the couch, eyes closed, hands steepled under his chin, but well aware of his brother's presence. 

"Good morning, brother," Mycroft greeted him. 

"Have you come to disparage me as well?" Sherlock growled in return. "It's not my fault that Lestrade was injured, regardless of what his team thinks." 

Mycroft could see that Sherlock was miserable with concern for the older man and unsure how to proceed. 

"No, Sherlock, I've brought you another mystery." Mycroft put the computer on the coffee table and opened the lid towards the detective. Sherlock cracked one eye towards the machine. 

"Hiya, sunshine." Greg beamed cheerily at the man on the couch, who sat up and pressed himself back against the couch cushions. 

"I thought this kind of taunt was beneath you, Mycroft," Sherlock hissed, narrowing his eyes and shoving the machine away. "I don't need your reminder of my missing contact."

"That's not Lestrade, although it is confirming that you thought it was." Mycroft had settled himself into an armchair while on-screen, Greg looked back and forth between the two. 

"Too much time in your underground bunker has addled your wits, Mycroft. Of course that's Lestrade. Processed through some video filter, perhaps." 

"That is a virtual assistant program assigned to me that seems to have escaped its bounds and refused shut down," Mycroft noted, with a slight fondness to his voice. He nodded towards the screen. "Ask him." 

Sherlock was clearly both skeptical and unimpressed. "Ask it what? To schedule me for tea at the palace a week from Tuesday? I don't need a prettified planner interface. I don't keep a calendar, as you well know." 

"I'm still here," Greg chimed in, "and thanks for the compliment," gaining himself an assessing gaze from Sherlock. 

"It shouldn't interrupt us. Should it? Why should it?" Sherlock had started talking to himself, more intrigued than he'd wanted to let on. "You wouldn't be fooled by standard-issue programming, and you've already run the security checks. What's the purpose?" Mycroft smiled to himself, happy to provide a distraction from his brother's sulk, and to receive confirmation of the resemblance. Sherlock continued, "And who knows you well enough to know what visuals you'd be susceptible to?" 

"I am not _susceptible_ , Sherlock. We only found out about the similarity last night, since I'd never seen your policeman before. When I was informed that your Scotland Yard contact had been unfortunately rendered unconscious, it seemed prudent to make you aware of this coincidence of appearance." 

"Working late with the assistant? Speaking of coincidence? Oh, dear, this does have you rattled." Sherlock grinned. Teasing Mycroft always made him feel better. 

"Greg has been quite helpful to me in the short time we have been acquainted. It seems sensible to me to keep a beneficial tool in the best working order. And yes, I desire reassurance that my files are secure and there are no breaches." 

Greg spoke up at this. "I told you, Mycroft, your needs are my only priority." 

"Goodness, it does mimic loyalty well, doesn't it?" Sherlock was still suspicious of the voice from the screen. "Let me put it through some paces." 

Sherlock's tests didn't go far, as Greg was remarkably stubborn for a computer program. "You need to learn some manners, sunshine," he told Sherlock. "I'll do what you ask, to the best of my ability, but you don't order me around. I work for your brother, not you, and I only do what he tells me." 

Sherlock pouted but grumpily began rephrasing his requests. He ascertained that Greg had near-instantaneous data recovery abilities, which confirmed he wasn't a front for a person behind the screen. He had personality greater than any Turing-test-simulator currently in existence. He expressed opinions and could disagree when it made sense to do so. But he had no memory, no history, and no knowledge of police procedure or cases beyond publicly available information. 

After an exhausting hour, during which Mycroft had made himself a cup of mediocre tea and observed the two gaining a grudging respect for each other, Sherlock sat back, frustrated and running his hands through his hair. "You know how little I like this, Mycroft, but I don't know what this is. He looks like Lestrade, he sounds like him, and he's far beyond any current level of interaction technology. Have you called any of your Baskerville friends, or their colleagues?" 

"You were the first person I thought of coming to." Mycroft needed to phrase the rest of his response carefully. He didn't want Sherlock to obtain another pressure point or get the wrong impression. "Greg has quickly become ... indispensable to me, and involving the wrong people would mean separation and potential destruction. We are seeking answers for his safety, to better understand his situation. They would experiment, and they aren't subtle in their investigations." 

"Aw, Mycroft, that's sweet of you!" Greg piped in. "Looking out for me like that." 

"Yes, well," Mycroft harrumphed. "As I said, you're quite helpful." He stood up suddenly to return his teacup to the kitchen, fleeing the scene in lieu of his brother taking his sudden show of connection as a weak point. When he returned, settled, he asked, "Have you visited your colleague at the hospital?" 

Sherlock was uncharacteristically quiet. "Once. Then they banned me. John has been." 

"Perhaps it's time to consult your doctor on this situation."

* * *

Sherlock sent John a text, arranging to meet at the hospital where Lestrade was being treated. The three regrouped in his room, once Mycroft had smoothed feathers and ushered Sherlock through. 

Mycroft's eyes swept over Lestrade, in his presence for the first time. He did look like Greg, if a rougher, scruffier version. Slack in unconsciousness, there was still an attractive charm to his features. It was strange to see that face on a person, with arms and legs and a strong chest and... Mycroft could imagine his mannerisms, based on his time with Greg. He cleared his mind of distraction to focus on the problem at hand. He still had the laptop with him. It was irrational, but he no longer wanted to let it out of his sight. 

"What's up, Mycroft?" John asked. "Sherlock said you had a problem for us?" Sherlock was uncharacteristically quiet, folding himself into a chair in the corner and glaring at everything. It seemed Lestrade's inability to interact with him was discomfiting him. 

Mycroft answered John's question, obliquely, as usual. "I find myself at a loss, Dr. Watson. Someone whom I wish to protect may have a connection to Detective Inspector Lestrade, but I am unsure how to proceed." 

John goggled a bit at Mycroft admitting such uncertainty before closing his mouth and shaking his head. "So you don't know Greg?" 

"Of course I know Greg. This is the first time I have been in the presence of Detective Inspector Lestrade." 

"That's Greg, Mycroft. Greg Lestrade. I know Sherlock can't remember his name but I would have thought you would have had him ... dunno, confirmed or something before you let Sherlock work with him." 

Mycroft weighed his words, with his brother in the room. "Sherlock has an exaggerated opinion of my security processes. There was no need to assume that an experienced police officer would need another opinion on the best way to proceed with his cases, particularly when my interference would risk the only career Sherlock has been able to maintain." 

"When you put it that way..." John considered, before drawing himself back to the problem at hand. He took Lestrade's chart and flipped through it. "Everything here seems normal, except for the lack of consciousness." 

"There's another element to which you should be introduced, Dr. Watson." Mycroft placed the laptop on the bedside table and opened it. John peered with interest at the screen, where Greg smiled his greeting. 

"Why do you have a video version of Greg?" 

"Sherlock asked the same. Well, demanded. So you also think that's Lestrade?" 

"What else?"

"That is the question. Dr. Watson, this is a virtual assistant program. Greg, my brother's ... flatmate." 

"Hello, Dr. Watson. Pleasure. Good on you for putting up with the scarecrow over there." Greg was his usual friendly, teasing self. 

Mycroft broke in. "Please forgive him. Sherlock was interrogating him earlier, and there seems to be some residual emotion." 

John looked from the screen to Mycroft and back again. "Forgive _him_? Why does your on-screen assistant program talk like that? Doesn't seem usual for government issue." 

"Exactly the case. Sherlock has verified that this is no longer a government program. Their system was shut down. Greg persisted."

"You call him Greg?" John's eyebrows went up and a small smile played on his lips. 

"That was how the introduction was made, yes." Mycroft glanced away from John's gaze. "If we could return to the problem at hand, impossible as it seems, these two seem to be related," he said, as he gestured to Lestrade's form. 

Sherlock broke in at that point. "John, you like those science fiction shows. What do you suggest?" No one was saying out loud what they were all contemplating, because it seemed a ridiculous possibility. 

"I'm already in one if you two are asking for my opinion. If you're serious, we have to establish an interface. Safest is probably the heart monitor, since Greg doesn't have any issues in that area."

Sherlock stepped forward, offering a cable out of the pocket of his coat. 

John looked at it, at him, shook his head, and continued on. "Mycroft, can you connect your laptop to this?" 

"Just a moment, please." Mycroft took his laptop into the corner of the room, as far away from the others as possible. He turned away from them and looked into the screen. "I find myself unexpectedly apprehensive about this, Greg. I have come to appreciate your presence over the past days, and I would be bereft at your disappearance."

"Don't worry, Mycroft. I won't leave you for good. And if we can help that officer back, that's important to Sherlock, right?" 

"His needs have always been more important than my own, but I have never before resented them in quite this way. Please be careful, Greg." Mycroft reached towards the laptop, his long fingers pausing just before touching Greg's image. 

Greg smiled, lighting up the screen, closed his eyes, briefly, and said, almost under his breath, "Farewell, Mycroft."

* * *

If anyone had been expecting fireworks, as if this was a thriller, they would have been disappointed. Connecting the laptop to the monitor system resulted in nothing obvious. 

"Greg?" Mycroft asked. "Are you still there?" 

"'m here. Feel a little odd, though. As if there's a strong wind behind me." 

The edges of the screen began to flicker, with lines of static appearing across Greg's image. "oooh, that's odd..." Greg suddenly disappeared just as the screen went black and the man in the bed uttered a small groan. 

"Greg!" Mycroft shouted. 

"at's me. Who are you?" Lestrade was awake. 

John leapt to his side while Sherlock whirled out the door to gather medical assistance. Mycroft paled and backed towards the nearest chair, collapsing into it, his eyes never leaving the recovered patient, as John reassured the inspector and checked him over.


	3. Chapter 3

Sherlock guided Mycroft out of the room, an arm around his shoulders. His brother needed time to recover, to reset himself. He would never admit it, let alone to his sibling, but Mycroft's behavior made it clear that he had become surprisingly attached to his computer friend. An unusual choice, but leave it to Mycroft to become sentimental over someone who didn't exist. 

He clearly didn't want to admit it. He shook off Sherlock's arm and straightened himself into perfect posture. "You should be pleased, Sherlock. Your detective inspector has recovered, so you should be back to work shortly." 

"Beneficial, but that wasn't my case. Once the medical team is done, I'll have John bring your computer..." 

Mycroft interrupted. "I am not your _client_ , Sherlock. Call my office when you have my device available for retrieval. It has been remotely locked, so there are no security concerns." He turned on his heel and rapidly departed down the corridor.

* * *

Mycroft kept moving. Action would keep him from realizing the magnitude of his loss. They had only worked together for a few days, but Greg's presence had made his life brighter for every one of them. It had been quite pleasant to have someone making suggestions and looking after him, even in such limited scope. But no matter. Greg had said he'd come back, but clearly that couldn't happen. Another example of how caring was bound to lead to disappointment. 

After a whirlwind of replacing his equipment and reworking his schedule with his real-life assistant, Mycroft found himself with nothing else to busy himself with. He reluctantly headed home, weighing his options for a fast approach to oblivion. Liquor was too risky, so a Russian novel it was. He changed into his oldest, most comfortable set of pajamas and tucked himself into bed with a weighty tome. 

He'd just begun drifting when his text alert sounded. 

_Despair not. All is not lost. -SH_

Wonderful. His brother was feeling poetic. He must have been even more worried about that police officer than suspected. 

_You didn't appreciate feeling taunted, Sherlock. Yet you would do the same?_

_No. Hope is foreign to you, brother mine. You should cultivate it. -SH_

This didn't help at all. Throwing the mobile aside and flopping back onto the pillows, Mycroft gave up on his friend, his family, and his future. He forced his eyes closed and made himself sleep by force of will alone.

* * *

Between the next morning's meetings, Mycroft was briefly surprised to get a text from a number he didn't immediately recognize. 

_Coffee?_

He ignored it. After several minutes, his mobile pinged, softly, again.

_Tea?_

Was this some odd menu program? He sent off a message to his assistant asking for the identity of the number. 

_That mobile is registered to DI Greg Lestrade, sir._

Ah. This could be shut down quickly, then. Mycroft responded.

_Unnecessary. Please ignore whatever Sherlock has told you, Lestrade._

Only to get back continuing persistence. 

_He gave me your number, but Sherlock won't explain it. Know you're busy but need your help._

It was probably time Mycroft assessed Lestrade for his suitability for his brother's work, anyway, he told himself. This _police officer_ couldn't have anything in common with his lost friend, other than a superficial resemblance. Mycroft returned the text. 

_I am free at four today._

* * *

The coffee shop was relatively quiet, and the far front corner was unoccupied when Mycroft arrived, early, to position himself most advantageously for both quick escape and to keep an eye on the door. 

When he arrived, Lestrade, with the suggestion of controlled rapid movement, stepped inside and scanned the room before seeing him. His smile lit up as soon as his eyes fell on Mycroft, and he stepped to his table, holding out his hand. "Don't believe we've been formally introduced, Mr. Holmes. Greg Lestrade. You were there when I woke up." 

Mycroft stood up. He may not know what this meeting was about, but propriety would take care of papering over any discomfort. He returned the handshake in a perfunctory manner. "I'm glad to see your recovery is going well." 

"Yeah, that's what I wanted to talk to you about. Hold on, what can I get you?" Lestrade gestured back to the counter and register. 

"I'm afraid I haven't much time, so nothing for me, thank you." Mycroft gave him the briefest tight-lipped smile, just enough to acknowledge his gesture and avoid rudeness, and returned to his seat. 

"All right, then, I'll be just a moment." 

Mycroft watched him walk off, confidence in his bearing. It was odd to see a living version of his computer assistant. He'd mostly seen Greg from the shoulders up, and this Lestrade had, of course, a more substantial physical presence. But even factoring in the discrepancy, the inspector took up more space in a room, establishing himself and drawing attention with his calm competence. Sherlock had chosen well. 

And then, Mycroft had thought Greg was gorgeous, but in person... he certainly attracted eyes, as Mycroft observed several other patrons looking his way, and the barista was obviously open to further interactions. He couldn't blame them. Those strong legs nicely balanced out the breadth of his shoulders. However, Lestrade didn't seem to notice any of the attention. 

He managed to surprise Mycroft on his return, though. Mycroft had been running analyses in his head of what Lestrade might want from him, and before he noticed, the man was seating himself across the table. Hmmm. It was odd that Mycroft's cautionary awareness wasn't triggered by someone getting so close. That made him an oddity, which meant it was time to end this. 

"May I ask why you wanted this meeting?" 

"Well," Lestrade started to explain, "Sherlock filled me in on some of what happened, about the case and how I wound up losing a couple of weeks. But he won't talk to me about you." 

"That is unsurprising. Our relationship is not a close one." 

"I need to know, though. What brought you to my hospital room?" 

"It is irrelevant, Detective Inspector. A minor question that has since been settled. If that was all?" Mycroft began to gather himself preparatory to departing.

"No, that's not enough." Lestrade placed his hand on Mycroft's forearm to keep him there. Mycroft briefly shuddered at the feeling this sparked across his skin and pulled back, out of his grip. Lestrade raised his hands in apology for the intrusion but kept talking. "Something odd's going on. 'm sorry but if I don't get an explanation, I fear I'll go mad." 

Mycroft barely kept himself from rolling his eyes in impatience. "An explanation for what?"

"Why I know you. Why I keep seeing you. Pictures in my mind." Lestrade gestured at his forehead. "I know what your smile looks like, your real one. I know what movies you like. I suspect I know more about your job than I'm supposed to. It's like lightning bolts in my head." 

Mycroft pinched his lips together and narrowed his eyes as he looked at Lestrade. This was not good. "Are you identifying yourself as a security risk?"

"No, mate, I'm saying I'm apparently your friend." 

"I can assure you, while I intend no offense, that is not the case." 

"Then why do I remember us having lunch together?" Lestrade looked sadly at Mycroft, his confusion over all this apparent in the large brown eyes he shared with Greg. 

Mycroft couldn't hurt someone who resembled so much the man who had cared for him. He sighed and made a snap decision, the only one he felt he could live with. "Very well. I think I can explain, but not here. Are you available to come with me?" 

"If you can solve this for me, I'll follow you anywhere." Lestrade's smile returned at the promise of having his questions answered. Mycroft begun to suspect the man was quite skilled at turning interrogations his way, as people unconsciously wanted to make him happy, just to see that pleased expression. It was quite the natural talent.

* * *

Mycroft, now committed to the path he'd chosen, took Lestrade back to his home. They settled in the lounge, Lestrade looking around. "Why do I recognize that sofa?"

"You... a variant of you... have seen it before. Do you remember anything else?" Mycroft asked him.

"I remember... 'When a man's partner is killed, he's supposed to do something about it. It doesn't make any difference what you thought of him.' That's from a movie, isn't it?" 

"Quite right. 'The stuff that dreams are made of.' _The Maltese Falcon_." 

"One of your favorites." Lestrade paused. "How do I know that?" 

"You know more about me than almost anyone else, I suspect. We spent a few intense days working together."

"When was that?" 

"During your coma."

"That's not funny!" 

"It's not meant to be. But it's the best explanation I can come up with." Mycroft told the story of his virtual assistant, more human than he should be, and how the assistant resembled Sherlock's colleague, and how he kept operating after the program shut down, and what happened just before Lestrade woke up. 

Lestrade had kept quiet during all this, but he was clearly shaken by the implications. "Mr. Holmes, this all sounds something like a fairy tale. Are you really telling me that somehow, part of me was transferred to your laptop? And that part came back and woke me up?" 

"I agree it appears unbelievable. Yet Sherlock and Dr. Watson identified my assistant as you. Do you know of any other way to explain the knowledge and the visions you have?" 

Lestrade was silent for a few long moments. "Can't think of any. But that's usually when a Holmes provides an answer I didn't see. Which I 'spose you've done." He shook his head, still unwilling to believe he'd lived in a computer for two weeks. "This'll take some getting used to." 

"Now that I've answered your question, you should be able to come to terms with your memories. If that's all..." Mycroft stood up, ready to show Lestrade the door.

"Hold up, Mycroft. There's one more memory I want to ask you about. What are we doing for our second date?" 

Mycroft froze in place and blinked at the silver-haired man grinning up at him before gathering himself enough to respond. "Whatever do you mean?" 

"I mean, we had dinner and a movie, I seem to remember. And it went pretty well. So now it's my turn to take you somewhere. And I promised to tell you more about me. Well, some version of me." Lestrade began to seem more uncertain as Mycroft didn't respond. "If you're still interested in that, I mean." 

Mycroft was still unresponsive, staring at Lestrade. "Mycroft? You ok?" 

"... yes?" 

"Is that a 'yes, you're okay' or a 'yes, you'll go out with me'?" 

Mycroft remembered this feeling of uncertainty with an undercurrent of enjoyment. He'd last felt it talking with Greg, due to his charm and good nature and playfulness. Of course the real person version would have the same. Mycroft mentally prepared himself for going along for the ride as he sat down again. He knew how bad it felt to lose Greg, and given a second chance, he didn't want to do it again. He'd made his living out of snap decisions that turned out to be the only possible option, so now it was time to apply that skill to his personal life. 

"Yes, Lestrade, I would enjoy getting to know you better." 

"Mycroft, you can't say that and keep calling me Lestrade." 

"All right, Gregory." 

"Close enough. Cause Greg was the computer guy, right?" 

Mycroft finally looked at him, eyebrows raised. "You're quite observant." 

"I think my time in there taught my brain some things. New connections. Maybe enough to occasionally keep up with a Holmes." 

"You have nothing to worry about." Mycroft resolved to continue sharing things with his new friend, as Greg had taught him. "You quite often pleasantly surprise me." 

"Great! And now I can surprise Sherlock, too." 

"Oh?" 

"Yeah, I'm looking forward to thanking him for setting us up." 

"Gregory, you have a wicked sense of humor. May I be there? I want to watch." 

The two men chuckled together. Mycroft thought about how much laughter this amazing man had brought him and how much he hadn't known he was missing. 

"Now, for our date, when do you have time free, Mycroft?" 

"You of all people should know what my calendar looks like." Was teasing ok? Teasing felt like something Greg would like. 

"Oi, don't give me that. Different job now. I may not be as informed as that other Greg was, but I know something I can do that he can't." He reached out and clasped Mycroft's hand in his. "I'm looking forward to watching a movie together again. When we can both be on the sofa. And I can watch you fall asleep again." 

"Gregory!" Mycroft put a look of faux-anger on his face. "You are a menace. Some things are secret!" 

"Your secrets are safe with me. Like they were before." He raised Mycroft's hand, turning it over and pressing a kiss to his palm. "I promise." 

Mycroft shivered. There were distinct advantages to this form. Oddly, he didn't seem to have much trouble adjusting. "What would you care to do together? Was there something in particular you've missed over the last few weeks?" 

"Ooooh, yeah, really good coffee. And pastries. My local bakery is a wonder. I so rarely have time to indulge." 

"Then we shall breakfast together. If you'd like that." Mycroft was working on pulling back on the authority, since Gregory was no longer his assistant to order about. Although, come to think of it, Greg had never seemed to take his position all that seriously either. 

The other man snickered. "You know what that's code for?" 

Mycroft looked confused for just a moment. "... no?"

"You've never heard 'Let's do breakfast tomorrow. Should I call you or nudge you?'"

"Gregory, I think you greatly overestimate my tolerance for the kind of environments where anyone would say such a thing." 

"So that's a no on the nudging, then?" Greg's eyes twinkled as he grinned, his fingers continuing to brush against Mycroft's. "I sent you to bed once before." 

Mycroft paused before slipping back into political politeness. "I am flattered by your proposition but fear that an accord between us on this topic at this juncture would be premature." 

"No need for the doublespeak. We've got plenty of time." Greg suddenly yawned, a jaw-splitting expression that didn't fit behind his hand. "Now that that's settled, I'd better be off. Apparently digital avatars don't sleep and a coma doesn't count either." 

"Are you safe to return home? There is a guest room here." 

"Yeah, that sounds great. I'm knackered all of a sudden. Point me to it." Greg was having trouble keeping his eyes open, as a wave of fatigue seemed to have overwhelmed him. Mycroft stood up, then stood him up, putting an arm around his back to steady him as he walked him slowly to the room. 

Once there, Mycroft guided him to sit on the bed while he crouched to remove his shoes and socks, placing them to the side, then unwrapped Greg from his jacket. Once free of that garment, he fell backwards before scooching himself around for his head to find the pillow. "Thanks, M'croft," he barely got out before succumbing to slumber. Mycroft turned off the lights and backed out of the room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's thanks to encouragement from Lady_Cleo that I'm putting another chapter up now. And extended the count -- we're not done yet! 
> 
> Hopefully the revelation of Greg's identity wasn't too disappointing. It's all science fiction magic. 
> 
> (Anyone else a fan of _Sneakers_ , which is where I first heard that terribly cheesy pickup line? If I could find a way to work in _WarGames_ , we'd have the triumvirate of great hacker flicks.)


	4. Chapter 4

After tucking Gregory in, Mycroft had barely made it back to the kitchen to find something for supper when his mobile lit up. 

_Told you. -SH_

Oh, good, Sherlock wanted to gloat. How charming. 

_What are you claiming foreknowledge of this time?_

_He's a bulldog. Loyal. Determined. I knew he would come back to you. He's there, isn't he? -SH_

_Yes, thank you, I'm aware._

Mycroft resolved to ignore his phone for the rest of the night. It was a challenge hosting his inadvertent guest, even without Sherlock's interference. Gregory's presence in his house as more than a virtual being was quite enough of a distraction. Before he set the mobile aside, though, a few instructions would ensure that tomorrow they had waiting for them the breakfast his guest had deliciously described.

* * *

Greg apparently had needed his sleep. Mycroft heard nothing from the man or the room until after he'd already woken, freshened up, dressed for the day, and started his tea the next morning. Then a whirlwind swept into the breakfast room. 

"Can't believe I slept that much! Christ, I've got to get home and change before my shift. My fault, didn't set an alarm." Greg couldn't stop glancing at his watch and running his hand through his hair in dismay. 

Mycroft calmly looked up from where he sat, both hands wrapped gracefully around a porcelain teacup. "Gregory, please breathe. You do recall that you do that now?"

The policeman laughed, and with the laughter, he calmed down. "True. Good one. Forgive me for being such a poor guest, but I do have to get going." 

Shame, but Mycroft well knew that needs must. And he could at least be a gracious host, in spite of his disappointment at spending so little time together. "Please take your choice of the pastries on the kitchen counter. There's a reusable travel container for the coffee that's just brewed. I have sugar and cream here if you wish." 

Greg boggled a moment before his features settled into a smile. "Mycroft, you're a miracle worker! Not how I envisioned our breakfast date, but you're a champ. 'm so sorry I can't stick around." 

"As my wise former assistant said, we've got plenty of time. You most likely have a lot to catch up on at work, given your unfortunate absence. Please get in touch once you are more settled." Mycroft smiled at him over the cup. 

"I definitely will," he responded, before sweeping out the door, to-go cup in one hand, almond croissant in his mouth.

* * *

Mycroft expected some time to think would do them both some good, so he was surprised to get a text from the inspector only a few hours later that morning. 

_SOS! Something's wrong._

Mycroft rolled his eyes. That wasn't enough to diagnose a solution from, even for him. 

_Can you be more specific?_

_I have to show you. When can you come by my office? Please?_

If it wasn't for the feeling of panic he got from the messages, Mycroft would have put off any kind of visit to New Scotland Yard, but if Gregory needed him...

_On my way._

* * *

His security card and attitude got him up to Greg's office, which Mycroft glided into, ignoring the murmurs from the officers on the floor about his presence. He closed the door behind himself and stood in front of the messy desk. Gregory was seated behind it, but rolled as far away as he could from anything nearby. He seemed to be trying not to touch anything around him, except for the travel coffee mug clutched in his hand. 

"Gregory, whatever is the matter?" 

"I'm electric. I've already shorted out the phone and computer." Greg looked up at Mycroft, trying not to show the anxiety he was clearly feeling.

"Don't be absurd." Mycroft picked up the phone handset, but there was no dial tone and nothing on the electronic display. The computer screen was also dark, as were all the indicator and power lights. 

"'m not exaggerating. As soon as I touched the keyboard to log in, it went 'zap' and stopped working. Same with the phone when I tried to call IT." 

"And yet you managed to text me. Give me your hand." 

Greg was hesitant. "I don't want to hurt you." 

"I grew up with Sherlock. You think I haven't been shocked before? His experiments... regardless, we touched yesterday, and everything was fine. Come here." Mycroft gestured for Greg to move towards him. Likely, he didn't give himself enough time to recover after his recent adventure, and this behavior was simply a reaction indicating he needed some more rest. 

Greg rolled closer to his desk, put down his coffee, and extended his hand to Mycroft, who took it gently. He turned it over, running his fingers across the palm. There was a feeling of electricity, true, but Mycroft knew that had to be more fanciful than literal. 

"See? You're fine. I'm fine. Is there another computer you can use?" 

"Donovan's not at her desk today." 

"All right, let's try that." Mycroft tugged Greg to his feet, then opened the door for him. 

Greg led him to a cubicle just outside his office. They both stepped into the small space, then Greg gingerly reached out a finger towards the keyboard. Just before he made it to the enter key, a spark flew, a sizzling noise was heard, and the machine went dark. 

"See? 'm not making it up!" Greg had backed into a corner.

Mycroft was astonished, although he didn't show it. Perhaps there were, after all, some residual effects from Greg's little vacation. "I see. But there's nothing to worry about," he soothed, in a soft voice, as he patted Greg's arm. "You're no danger to anyone, and these machines are likely overdue for an upgrade anyway. We'll figure this out." 

Greg turned to him with gratitude in his eyes. "Thanks. I needed to tell someone who wouldn't think I was crazy." 

"I believe you." Mycroft put his arm around Greg's shoulders and began walking him out of the building. 

"Where we going?" 

"Where else? To see our mad scientist."

* * *

On their way to Baker Street, Mycroft texted Sherlock to warn him they would be visiting. He hoped to prevent one of his brother's strops. Sherlock wouldn't care about Mycroft's feelings, but he might show enough consideration to make things easier for Greg. 

As they arrived, Mycroft realized that his best attempts had been futile. "What have you done to yourself now, Lestrade?" floated down the staircase to them as a greeting. 

"Are you sure this a good idea, Mycroft?" The brown eyes turned to him. 

"Never. But we want your mystery solved, correct?" Mycroft gestured Greg up the stairs ahead of him. 

As the two men entered the sitting room, Mycroft shepherding Greg with a hand on his lower back, Sherlock swept his eyes up and down Lestrade. "Don't let him near the electronics, Mycroft." Greg stood still in the middle of the room while Sherlock buzzed around its edges, pulling out various monitors and gauges from drawers, shelves, and piles. Mycroft wasn't sure whether Sherlock was actually going to measure anything or thought the activity would reassure Greg. Perhaps he was being more considerate than usual and simply wanted to make Greg laugh, as he was excellently portraying a mad scientist. Positioning himself out of the way, Mycroft kept his eyes fixed on Greg, projecting calm confidence to reassure him. 

Sherlock cobbled together a couple of the gadgets, aimed the result at his new test subject, and hmmm'ed at the display. "It appears that there is some residual energy left from the transfer that needs to be discharged." 

Sherlock reached out a hand towards the older man, only to draw it back when a zap sounded just before he made contact. He rubbed his fingertips together, frowning. "That's going to make things difficult." He narrowed his eyes at his older brother. "You touched him earlier. Why can you touch him?" 

"I do not have a hypothesis for that, Sherlock," Mycroft responded. 

"Well, it's convenient. You can ground him. Discharge the extra." 

"What do you suggest?" Mycroft looked to Sherlock and internally steeled himself for any number of possible ridiculous ideas while Greg stood quietly, watching the two. 

"It's up to you, but given the proportional concentration of nerve endings in the human body and effective dispersal patterns, the most expedient would be to kiss him." 

Mycroft instantly countered, "I think not!" It was instinct, and he winced when he realized Greg had heard his rejection. He slowly turned his eyes to his friend and was astounded to hear that Greg, in spite of his own situation, was more concerned about reassuring him, "There's no need for that, Mycroft. Your brother's having you on. It'll probably just wear off if I give it time." 

Greg seemed awfully weary, though. Mycroft couldn't let him think he wasn't interested or willing to help, particularly since he looked so resigned. He stepped closer, taking Greg's hand. "My apologies, Gregory. Of course I will do whatever I can to help you. Forgive me for reacting so inappropriately when you've already struggled with so much." Mycroft glared at Sherlock, "I do believe some privacy would be in order." 

Sherlock flounced out of the room, leaving the other two alone. Greg was the first to speak. "Was he serious?" 

"It's hard to tell," Mycroft said. "He could be attempting to embarrass me, or cause trouble for you, or he might mean it. Do you object?" 

"Well, they say that the third date isn't too soon for a kiss." Greg smiled, shyly.

"Three already? At some point, it would be nice to simply go for dinner." Mycroft's slight witticism worked, as Greg relaxed a bit, losing tension from his body as he exhaled. "Are you ready?" 

At his nod, Mycroft cradled Greg's face in his long-fingered hands as Greg closed his eyes. Mycroft took a breath, then he gently pressed their lips together. It felt magical, even without whatever odd electrical crisis they were trying to solve. As the kiss continued and deepened, Mycroft could feel his nervous system lighting up all down his spine. Greg wrapped his arms around him and opened his mouth to him so they could better taste each other.

Nothing else in the world mattered at that moment. Finally, they had to break apart, panting, leaning on each other with their foreheads touching. Their eyes opened, looking deep within each other. Greg gasped and muttered, "I don't even care if that worked. Damn, all this was worth getting to do that." 

From the other room came Sherlock's peevish voice. "Aren't you done yet?" 

The two men bashfully stepped away from each other as Mycroft answered, "Yes, Sherlock, you may return." 

As he strode back into the room, he grabbed a laptop from the side table. "Here, try this, it's John's." 

Greg, not even looking in his direction, as his eyes wouldn't leave Mycroft, reached out to the side and tapped at the keys. Nothing happened. "Terrific, mate, you're brilliant. I'm cured, ta very much." He swallowed before continuing, "I have to go now. Coming, Mycroft?" 

"I'm very much looking forward to it." The two men walked out together into the open air.


End file.
